© Tiago Fróis


We walk along the ceiling, as if it were a vast field. Faetonte in his Apollo Convertible, sooty and yellow, is suspended between Heaven and Earth; falling very slowly and continuously.

Faetonte is looking for the original of the magical portrait, shipwrecked, the portrait of all colors and sizes, the portrait of his love, a much better copy than the original: “I pledge to make giant investments!”. There are conspiracies that change the names of planets and transform men.

The Precipice is revealed above a sky ablaze with light, the fiery air makes the shadows disappear and the Earth, although flat, even appears concave. These are ambitions that are not earthly, they are sidereal.

And we fold our hands under our arms. We are the spectators of the Catastrophe.

The Precipice awaits now, there will always be a forever ahead of us, and all of this is definitely or probably true.

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